THE SPH CH, love is the sou loves all the love With his sprig of Spoken.] I hav'nt a whole thread upon me that heart is good hu isn't in tatters, and if I keep Lent much longer, I'll be malice or hatred a perfect rag-bag of bones. I'm a great mind to travel Be courts and be ma Ito London, where they say the flint-stones in the street love, all for love poultry, run about ready dressed, crying, Cut and Tho has ere had the come again. No I won't, for though I am out of They're fishermen all, fishermen all; O, Ireland, why from thee did ever I stray? Irishman all in his With his sprig of s Fs clothes spick and eat Barcelona tied e goes to a tent and de meets with a frien With his sprig of sh evening returning, heart soft with wh From a sprig of she Spoken.] I've made up my mind at first sight, be-eets with his She cause second thoughts are best, I'll be married to Patty, and if she won't have me, I'll die an old maid for her sake; though I could return to Kilkenny and wed old Deborah Dogherty, whose first husband died the day before they were married, and left her a disconsolate widow. (Imitation of the original singer.) With a rich pair of pockets o'erflowing with charms, To the fine baby cries out, Ad the country, say And very much in fashion, for she'd very little ess the land of the Where rub the foe who dar aited and happy, at THE SPRIG OF SHELLELAGH. ОCH, love is the soul of a nate Irishman, He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can, With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without ever a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to a tent and he spends ha'f a crown, At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows that, A fine baby cries out, how d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green!' Additional verse. Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth, Where grows' the shellelagh and shamrock so green, May the sons of the Thames, the 'Tweed and the Shan non, Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy, at loyalty's shrine, May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green. NED GROGAN. NED Grogan, dear joy, was the son of his mother, Always ask my advice, when the business is done; one.' Spoken.] So, Neddy, taking it into his pate to fetch a walk over to England, stepped to ask the advice of his second head; but by St. Patrick, a drop of the crature had made her speechless, and so being dead into the bargain, all that he could get out of her was Phililu, bodderoo, whack, gramachree. Ned's mother being waked, to England he came, sir, Spoken.] Och, to be sure and they didn't carry on a roaring trade, till Larry having the misfortune to take a drop too much at the Old Bailey, poor Grogan was once more left alone to sing Phililu, &c. Left alone, sure, O'Grogan set up for himself, Spoken.] Och, bad luck to her! cried Grogan: to be sure, I took her for better or worse; but since she's proved all worse and no better, faith! her loss makes me sing Phililu, &c. DEAR harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; THE IRISH HAYMAKER. AND did you ne'er hear of an Irish haymaker And my father he was, yes he was, a stay-maker, By my soul from the cradle I've suck'd it, I own. Then what d'ye think of an Irish haymaker? Och! an't he a devil the lasses to smack? With his didderoo-bub, and his little shellelagh, Sing up and down friskey, and fire away whack. There's Judy M'Brawn, and I ne'er will forsake her, For, faith we are tied, so I can't get away, Then, she sings like an owl, when the maggot does take her, And growls, bites, and scratches, the long summer's day. Then her friend as she calls him, one Teddy O'Shaf ferty, To be sure she don't hug him as puss did the mouse, While he fondles, and calls her his sweet Mrs. Raf ferty, What a blessing to have such a friend in a house! Then what, &c. Then do what I will, or wherever I'm walking, By my soul, I am watch'd, night and day, out of sight, Nor the devil a word they believe when I'm talking, As if I was given to swear black is white, One day, to be sure, I looked into a kitchen, And saw the pot boiling, but not for poor Pat; But for love and for thieving I'd always an itching, So I took out the mutton and popped in the cat. Now what, &c. Och, luck to sweet summer, the fields, and the lasses, For sure we don't frisk it up hill and down dale, |